


One They Could Understand (Hurt His Hands)

by ceresilupin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, First Time, Nervousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Lavellan, first time, navigating some of their issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One They Could Understand (Hurt His Hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning, I suppose? Some of Cullen's behavior is a bit suggestive of past sexual assault. It's left vague in the fic as to what exactly happened, but it's better to be safe.
> 
> Took me forever to come up with a title! From the lyrics to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3MwvG7tmpo).
> 
> Filled for a kink meme request: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11864.html?thread=46415448#t46415448

Kissing is familiar territory now. They’ve gotten comfortable with it. Not that they kiss _all_ the time (not that Ellana would be opposed), but they have . . . well, kind of a routine. Signals. Ellana will mosey around until she’s on Cullen’s side of the desk, resting her hip against it, head tilted. His eyes will darken and he’ll tug off his glove, resting his hand on the curve of her neck. Her heart will tremble, her face will flush, her eyes will flutter closed, and he’ll kiss her.

Or she’ll go to stand beside him at the lead-paned window, watching the diamond pattern paint irregular triangles over his cheekbones. She’ll link her arms behind her back, resting her shoulders against the stone. And he’ll step carefully forward, metal armor creaking, and touch their lips together chastely. And then he’ll kiss her chin, her jaw, all before nuzzling her pointed ear, the rasp of his breath as good as a sweet whisper.

Or he’ll be leaning back in his chair, chatting about – well, she honestly doesn’t remember – and she’ll circle around so that she’s behind him. He’ll half-turn, smiling curiously, and she’ll put her arms around him from behind. He’ll tilt his head back, opening his mouth to hers. Her hands will tighten in his fur collar and his hand will grip at her shoulder, the back of her neck, made rough by gauntlet and glove. The strain on his neck, twisted around in this unusual pose, will translate to tension in his kiss, and the sweet longing in his eyes when they break will make her sigh, biting her lip, until he pulls her around and devours her mouth greedily.

Or she’ll wait until they’re alone at the war table and she’ll catch his hand, waiting for the glint of approval in his eye. She’ll stretch to reach him over the map, kissing him carefully, nervously, until they either break apart or he deepens it, tongue in her mouth, breath blowing ragged against her cheek. The usually end up knocking a few pieces aside, but Cullen always remembers where they go.

Or . . . well, it goes on.

Sex, Ellana finds, is completely different.

It started out as kissing in Cullen’s office, followed by a walk around the battlements together. They put on professional faces as they checked in at the guard towers, spot-checking weapons, armor, and routines. When Cullen was distracted by his duties, the men told her stories about him, clearly trying to portray him as impressively as possible in front of his ‘ladyfriend’ (as one fellow called her, to immediate ribbing from his friends).

Once they were away from Cullen’s soldiers, their shoulders began bumping again, little flirting remarks and teasing. It made her so _happy_ to see his eyes alight, shoulders relaxed, that it was hard to maintain her solemn, attentive Inquisitor’s Face. She just wanted to beam at _everyone._

And once they were done with the circuit of the walls, they ended up back in Cullen’s office, where they kissed again. They’d discussed going to the tavern as they walked, to meet up with the others, but they just kiss and kiss and. . . .

They’d talked about sex, but never set any kind of timeline. No matter how close they grew, how heated their touches became, Cullen always found an excuse not to continue. Ellana had wondered, once or twice, if he had taken an oath of some kind after all. Or maybe he just wasn’t that attracted to her, or the threat of Corypheus was distracting him—

When he pushed her against the door, a burning contrast of cold armor and hot mouth, such thoughts fled. She held him as tightly as she could, not wanting it to end. Not wanting him to stammer something that led to her gracefully finding an exit for them both. Not wanting to see his eyes, equal parts grateful and hang-dog, as she turned away.

The kiss ended, their breath harsh, but he put no distance between them. A moment of quiet, tense shifting later, their temples were touching, his lips tickling her ear.

“I was wondering,” he starts, backing away a bit. She takes a deep breath, searches for an appropriate smile, her stomach plummeting, but his hand on her shoulder stops her. “No, not that. I was wondering—“ He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand. “If you would, if I could. If—“ He stops again, huffing exasperatedly.

Ellana finds herself smiling again, the same feeling of happiness bubbling up in her. “Cullen,” she breathes. He glances at her through his lashes, unhappy and hopeful. “Are you inviting me to stay the night?” she teases.

His lips quirk in rueful embarrassment. “I’m trying,” he admits, warm again. “I’m not doing very well. I could use some help.”

Ellana steadies his chin and darts in for a kiss. “You’ll get no complaints from me,” she says – not for the first time – and moves carefully to the side, towards the ladder he masochistically insists on. He could have had a room in the keep itself, one without a hole in ceiling, but he wanted to be close to the troops. It was better than him camping outside the walls with the bulk of their forces, which he’d initially insisted on.

She keeps their hands linked, guiding him to follow. Cullen moves slowly in her wake, face dim and shadowed in the darkening room. “You’re certain?” he asks quietly.

She’s smiling again, broad and happy. “I’m certain,” she promises.

He chuckles a little at her heat, and gives her one final kiss as she moves up to his room.

~

There, things are briefly interrupted. Cullen brings the fire to life, apologizing for the chill. Ellana crosses her arms over her stomach, promising that she doesn’t mind it rather than saying _it won’t matter once we’re in bed,_ which was the first thing she thought of. He’s so palpably tense that her own shoulders are tightening in sympathy.

He hesitates once the fire is roaring, removing his gloves from his belt and tossing them onto a table. Ellana moves forward carefully, approaching him and the heat, both delighted and terrified by the heavy weight of his gaze. She rocks up on her toes to kiss him carefully, and after a brief pause, it melts into a familiar closeness. _Kiss #3,_ she terms it, even though she hasn’t actually counted or catalogued them – but it reminds her of their early romance, Cullen’s nervousness and restraint, her own carefully moderated need.

His hands settle on her hips with enough suddenness to startle her, which he of course feels. He turns his head and says, “Sorry,” and she laughs breathily, giddy and light.

Rather than acknowledge the apology, she tugs on his fur collar. “Does this come off?” she teases.

Cullen’s answered smile is a little forced, but genuine enough. “Theoretically,” he says, teasing her right back, and she laughs, kissing him again. This time _he_ is the one with his back to the wall, which she doesn’t mind at all.

She’s not sure if he can feel her hands on the cloth, encased in armor as he is, so she admits, “I can’t figure out the buttons.”

His breath comes unevenly – a little laugh, she realizes – and he replaces her hands with his, working some kind of clothing-related magic. The fabric falls open, and she pushes it over his shoulder and back. It joins his gloves on the table. Before she can acknowledge the removal of one of his layers, his mouth is on hers, hot and hard.

She cups his cheek and kisses him back, but with a little impatience – she doesn’t want to kiss, they’ve done that enough. She wants to get him out of his armor, to crawl into bed with him, to feel his thick shoulders and long, muscled legs. But his mouth is insistent, bearing down on hers, so she slides her hands over the metal until she finds a seam. Her fingers encounter rumpled cotton, and beneath that, she can feel the heat of skin and flex of muscles.

She shivers. Aside from some spots on his arms, and his face and neck of course, she’s _never_ felt his body. And she wants, Maker, she wants—

Cullen makes a muffled sound, one hand coming off her hip (it feels cold without it, and she is rocked to the side, his other grip pressing enough to leave her a bit off-balance) to claw at his armor. She had expected a number of straps, carefully hidden, she had expected it to take time, the two of them trading quips and smiles and kisses—

Instead, he undoes it one handed, dropping it onto a nearby rug that muffles the sound somewhat, but still makes her jump. “Sorry,” he says again, that diffident mumble, and dives back in to resume the kiss.

Her lips are starting to go a bit numb, actually. She manages to put some space between them to murmur, “That was fast.”

He ducks his head, nuzzling her shoulder. “Not as complicated as it looks.”

His manner is beginning to alarm her. “Cullen—“

He kisses her throat, pressing briefly with his teeth, and she shudders. When her arms come around him now, she is flooded with heat and the strong, solid press of his body. No more metal. At least, not on his chest. His exhale is hard, choked, and Ellana feels her face flushing as her lips part, gasping. It’s like her body has decided to rev everything up a notch. His back is no longer to the wall – he’s moved forward, compressing the space between them to nothing, bent over slightly as his lips travel back to her mouth.

His grip on her hips – his hand flew back to that safe space the minute his armor was cast aside – has tightened to the point of pain. Ellana runs her hands over his back, from the nape of his neck to the span of his shoulders – and she feels desperation, yes, but not the desperation she craves. He is hard everywhere, rigid, but like ice is hard, not warm and moving against her.

He’s not happy, she realizes, and something in her wails.

Nervous all over again, worried and even afraid, she stops the kiss with a press of her palm to his chest, the gentlest hint of a push. “Cullen,” she says.

He jerks back like he’s been stabbed, tension in his body so profound she expects to hear a snap. He meets her eyes for the first time since they began kissing in the dark.

Yes, she’d been right. He’s not happy. He looks terrified.

“Cullen,” she says again, her throat tight.

Cullen almost flinches, expression growing stormy, and averts his face. “Ellana, I’m sorry—“

“Stop,” she orders raggedly, “stop apologizing.”

He definitely flinches this time.

“I don’t—“ Ellana forces herself to stop, to bite back her words and think them over. Rather than give voice to her fears and anxieties, she breathes deeply and modulates her voice carefully. “What’s wrong, love?”

Cullen touches her wrist with the very tips of her fingers, the careful, uncertain request of a child. She watches as he links their hands together, and she hears him swallow. But he doesn’t speak. Tilting her head to see his face, she’s not sure he can. He’s as wrapped up in his head as he ever was during his lyrium withdrawals.

She wonders if that’s what’s causing his behavior tonight, but she doesn’t dare ask. Not only would it be an unpleasant reminder, but it would hopelessly derail the evening. And he would never forgive her for suspecting him of what was, according to him, weakness (although Ellana knows it is no such thing).

Since he isn’t speaking, she reaches up with her free hand and strokes his face. He catches that hand immediately but makes no move to stop her – instead, he leans into her touch, stroking her wrist and palm as she moves.

“You’ve been tense since we came upstairs,” she says, trying to piece her foggy memories together. “If you don’t want—“

He’s shaking his head before she can finish, still avoiding her eyes.

“—if you want to wait,” she continues doggedly, “or never at all – that’s okay, I just—“

He shakes his head again, pressing his mouth to her palm so hard she swears she can feel the shape of his teeth.

“I just need you to talk to me,” she finishes unevenly. “Okay? Please.”

She sees his eyes close, sees the deep line appear between his brows. His hands on hers don’t loosen in their grasp. If anything, they tighten. He can’t say _why_ , of course, because he’s still pressing her palm to his mouth so hard that the bones in her hand ache. It’s like he’s trying to hide his face, which will never work, but it makes her feel so tender and bruised that it’s hard to breathe.

She steels herself, feels her face settling into remote, attentive lines – her Inquisitor’s Face, the one she’d practiced in the mirror. “Do you need me to leave?” she asks, and her voice is all wrong, not her Inquisitor’s Voice at all, ragged and crackly around the edges. But it’s the best she can do, when it feels like her heart is breaking.

This gets a reaction, when nothing else has. He startles. “Maker, no!” he blurts, hands flying to grip at her waist, fingers digging into the fabric. “Not at all, no, Ellana—“

His voice has gone thick, brow still furrowed. She realizes that he’d been hiding his face in order to hide his emotions, and that he is close to tears. Maybe he hadn’t been avoiding her questions, just trying to master his feelings before answering them. She knew what that was like. But she also knew that sometimes you couldn’t – sometimes the emotions had to come out with the words. There was no way around them.

“Okay,” she consoles, “okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he argues, voice raised, expression completely crumpled. “It is _not_ okay.”

Her instinct is to agree, to soothe, but of course agreeing would be the opposite of soothing – and so, tangled in her own impulses, she ends up being silent.

Cullen seems to read something into it, because he finally drags his head up to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to – I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I truly—” He bows his neck, forehead brushing her shoulder. “I truly don’t want you to leave. Please don’t go.”

“I won’t go,” Ellana promises, as helpless as if compelled. Is there anything he could ask that she would say ‘no’ to? “But we still – we still need to figure this out.” She pauses, trying to find a way forward through this unexpected minefield. “Cullen,” she starts, and stops.

His expression, when he finally lifts his face, is defeated.

She strokes his hair again, hating the pain in his eyes. “Cullen,” she says again, more firmly. “Have you done this before?”

He winces, face reddening, and then laughs grimly at his own humiliation. “Yes,” he grits, as if he’s decided that he deserves this punishment, and is determined to suffer through it. He sees the doubt in her face and reiterates. “Yes, I have. Long ago, but yes.”

“I’m getting the feeling,” Ellana says, eyes flickering rapidly, “that you didn’t enjoy it much.”

This seems to give Cullen pause. She aches, watching him consider something that shouldn’t _have_ to be considered, if the world was just. The conclusion he comes to is not happy, but it does seem to calm him, somehow. “It wasn’t – enjoy isn’t the right word,” he finally says. “I had no feelings for her. It was just something I needed to do. To get out of the way. To prove I could.”

Carefully, she prompts, “And before that?”

He shrugs, one-shouldered, a surprisingly bitter light in his eyes. “That was my first time,” he admits. His face is dark red now, and Ellana feels her own cheeks heating in sympathy, even as her stomach turns into a cold little pit. “It rather . . . cured me of any desire to repeat the experience.” He shrugs again.

The picture he’s painting is starkly miserable, but not violent. Assuming, of course, he’s telling them both the truth. “Okay,” Ellana says again, still stroking his hair, still thinking. Seemingly, he realizes that she isn’t going to push him away; he creeps closer, his arms circling her waist. There’s no painful dig of fingers into hips, this time – his grip is light but firm. The tip of his nose brushes hers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Can we,” he says carefully, “can we try again?”

Ellana sways, her lips drawn to his as if by magic. From somewhere, she finds the strength to resist. “Do you feel calmer?”

Another little wince. “I’m – yes, I’m fine.” She levels him with an unimpressed stare, and he sighs, relents. “Yes. Mostly. Somewhat.”

Ellana’s other hand, the one not cupping his cheek, comes up to rub his back. He shivers a little, bowing his head, and she sees the hairs on his neck standing on end. Smiling a little, she rests her cheek on his shoulder. Slowly, some of the tension drains from him.

“We don’t _have_ to do anything,” she murmurs in his ear. She pitches her voice to be a slow and seductive as possible, having observed before how it makes him react. He shivers, turning blindly toward her, lips catching and pressing in a brief, graceless kiss. “But I think – I would like – if we just . . . got into bed. Just like this,” she adds hastily, as she feels his gut tighten, his heart start to race. “Still dressed. Although the armored bits, maybe those should go.”

Cullen breathes a chuckle against her mouth, easing against her again. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she says, relaxing in turn. “Just us, in bed. And we’ll see what happens.”

~

He kisses her properly now, deep and grateful. He guides her to his bed without a word, tossing the corner of the blanket aside, and she sits on the edge of the mattress, tipping her chin up for kisses as he bends awkwardly to unfasten the armor on his left leg. Once she sees how it works, she unfastens the plates on his other thigh, feels the muscles jumping underneath her hand. His kiss turns hot and open-mouthed, and her toes curl, a fresh flash of arousal.

“One moment,” he breathes, hand resting on her shoulder as he works himself free of boots and knee-guards. As soon as the last piece is on the floor, Ellana slips her legs beneath the blankets, keeping his hand in hers as she guides him into his own bed.

They return to kissing, close and warm and intimate, beneath the shelter of the darkness and the blankets. She asks before touching his chest, “Is this okay?” and he breathes an affirmative. He ends up on his back, his arms loose as she strokes his belly, up and down, brushing her thumb against his nipple carefully. Their kisses are briefer, deepening and falling away – she no longer gets the feeling he is trying to crawl inside her and hide.

She finds the ties at the top of his shirt, loosens them while stroking the bits of skin between them – does the same for his sleeves, running her hands from his wrists to elbows. Even his forearms are strong, dusted lightly with rough hair, and when he pulls her close again, all she can think about is what his arms will feel like against her skin.

Despite all the layers he’s already removed, they’re both still fully clothed. Ellana guides his hand to her throat, and his fingers hover over hers, observing by touch as she undoes the first clasp. “Is this okay?” she asks again, and he leans forward to kiss her throat.

“Yes,” he murmurs, rough and dark, and she swallows a squeak. She undoes the rest of her collar carefully, his fingers following along, until she’s revealed the hollow of her throat, a brief stretch of skin, and just a hint of her breast band. Not that he can see it in the flickering light from the fire, but he can certainly feel it. He kisses her throat and chest carefully, reverently, his hand sliding from her hip to rest on her ribs, just beneath her left breast.

“You can touch,” she murmurs, and he presses his forehead to her sternum, whispering something that sounds like a prayer for strength. His free hand comes up and catches hers, pressing it into the mattress as he shifts his weight, settling between her legs.

His kisses to her exposed chest are enthusiastic, but he makes no move to undo the rest of her top. Ellana removes her hand from hair – when did it end up there? oh, well – and she taps his chin lightly, freeing up the space for the next snap. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” he whispers, kissing again and again, with each catch that’s released. “Maker, yes.”

The shirt finally undone, she pushes them both upright. He helps her toss the shirt aside, linking their hands back together the moment it’s gone.

 _Now_ she can feel his arms on her skin, brushing her back, and she shivers, pressing her breasts and belly forward. She feels his throat tighten, biting back a groan, and then he’s pressing her back to the mattress and stroking her waist, the dip of her shoulders. Lightly, so lightly, he touches her breasts. He does it all one-handed, of course: his other is still gripped firmly in hers.

~

It remains that way, even some time later. She rests atop him now, his shirt tossed aside along with her breastband. Their bodies slide together so perfectly that her head is buzzing. She toys with the waistband of his trousers, rubbing the jut of his hips. “Lower?” she asks, and he presses up against her. “Okay?”

He laughs, kissing her chin. “You don’t have to keep asking,” he says, sounding a bit exasperated. And probably offended at her perceived coddling, if she knows him.

“I like asking,” she says, only a little embarrassed. Her voice roughens. “I like hearing you say yes.”

He shivers, gripping her cheek, her hair, and then back down to toy with her nipples. “Then yes,” he grunts, and then astonishing her, he murmurs on a long exhale, “yes, yes, yes.”

Astonished, Ellana laughs, thrilled and happy, her cunt tightening both from the need in his voice, and his willingness to let her hear it. She rubs his cock through his pants, pleased to find that he’s hard. He twitches blindly with the touch, breath coming explosively, and then steadying as the first wave of sensation abates. Ellana squeezes his hand and tightens her grip, and he presses up blindly. She bites her lip.

“You like that?” she says, trying for teasing and coming out needy.

“Yes,” he says, and really, the only way to describe it is to say he _moans._ Ellana kisses him, whimpering in the very back of her throat, and without prompting he cups her arse and grinds their hips together.

“Oh,” she whispers, as the kiss ends. “Oh, Cullen—“

He laughs a little, too, and then his hand settles in the small of her back. Her spine curves automatically, as if she’s a cat. And then he’s rubbing that sensitive patch of skin just above the back of her trousers, reaching down occasionally to cup her arse, even as he stretches to kiss her breasts and nipples.

Ellana finds herself laughing again, giddy and breathless, her voice hitching periodically with pleasure and want. “Okay?” she asks, untying his trousers and pushing them aside. “Is this okay, Cullen—“

He removes his mouth from her breast, voice stunned and shaken, “Maker, yes, Ellana—“

His smalls go away, too, and then her hand is on his cock.

~

After a few moments of clumsy stroking, he is going rigid and tense, so she takes her hand away and kisses him. He tangles his fingers in her hair, in the cloth of her pants, and then separates their other hands – gone sweaty and a bit numb – to roll them over, bracing himself over her.

“Okay?” she asks, small-voiced.

He laughs, less pleasantly this time, and drops his head into the pillow behind her shoulder. “Ellana,” he says, with a hint of bite, “I’m fine.”

Embarrassed – is she ruining this? is she making him uncomfortable? – she holds him tightly. “I just want to make sure,” she says, still quietly.

“I know.” He strokes her cheek, kissing her tenderly. “I worried you. I never, never wanted that to happen.”

Admitting she was still worried would only make him feel worse. He would see it as a failure on his part, not an expression of love. So all she says is, “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I do.” His voice is a tender as his kiss, very quiet, in case someone might overhear him. Human men, she’s found, are almost as bad as elven men when it comes to their masculinity. “I am. Ellana, you’re amazing. So beautiful.”

She scoffs a little at the praise, moving on quickly. “Was it too much?” she asks. “Just now?”

Cullen is silent for a long moment. She can just barely see his face in the darkness, the flicker of his eyes and little shifts of his jaw, but she gets the idea he’s thinking. When he speaks, he sounds a bit distracted, like he’s still focusing on something else. “It was, a bit,” he admits. Amazed at his honestly, Ellana strokes his scalp and listens. “I don’t – it’s hard to let go,” and this is just a mumble.

She thinks she understands. Cullen embodies restraint. He describes his past self, the one he’s so ashamed of, in terms of the rage (and the despicable Meredith) that controlled him. The lyrium withdrawals leave his emotions surging, and it takes all of his strength to maintain a façade and keep the army running on time. Any crack in that careful mask seems to leave him humiliated, ashamed, and furious.

“I understand,” Ellana murmurs him. They kiss briefly. “It’s frightening for me, too,” she admits, operating under the theory that misery loves company.

His weight shifts above her, touch turning so gentle that she feels like she’s floating. “Ellana,” he says, wondering, and she hides her face in his shoulder. “You’re always so calm, so perfect. I can’t even say.” He strokes her cheek, her back, little restless movements, before tightening his arms around her, holding her tight and close. “And so beautiful,” he murmurs, against her ear. “I’m terrible at this, but – you believe me, don’t you?”

She struggles with a way to avoid saying ‘yes’ that doesn’t involve lying. Tragically, she can’t think of one.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs when she doesn’t answer, coaxing her face from its hiding place. “Let me.”

The muscles of her thighs tighten helplessly. “Yes,” she breathes, flattening her breasts to his chest as her arms go around him. “Yes.”

~

Their left hands clasped, Cullen presses two long fingers inside her. Ellana chokes, breath hitching, astonished at the _feeling_ – nothing like her own touch. Somehow it’s so much _more_ than his first finger had been. “Oh,” she murmurs, legs tightening around his hand. He buries his face between her breasts, thrusting in and out, and she whimpers, straining to meet him.

“Maker,” he says. Usually his swears are pretty creative, for a chantry boy. He seems to have been reduced to just one, now. And then he’s quiet, breath ghosting over her skin, as he fucks her with two fingers, withdrawing occasionally to stroke her clit, and it’s so wonderful that she’s writhing against the pillow, seeking equally to get further and to get away.

Finally, an explosive _please_ bursts from her. She laughs at herself a moment later, the sound juddery with the quake building her gut. Cullen bites her nipple lightly, using his thumb on her clit as his fingers push deep, and it pushes her right over the edge. She cries out, but quietly, amazed at her own daring, and is stunned to incandescence by the sound of Cullen muttering, _oh, fuck, Ella, please._

~

After that, things move quickly. Cullen is tight and rigid with tension again, but a wonderful tension that sways and dances with her touch, as if she’s conducting an orchestra of spirit beneath his skin. She promises that still she wants him inside her when he hesitates, and when he’s still worried, she begs him to fuck her, giggling in exhilaration and the realization that she’s _still turned on._

He’s laughing, too, quiet and low, by the time she guides him inside of her. The first thrust leaves her gasping, and he grunts, expression (what she can see of it) startled, amazed. Blissful. Their foreheads touch as he settles between her legs, and she rests her hand on his back as he thrusts again. She cries out, just a little noise, and his next thrust is harder, like he can’t control himself—

—like he doesn’t _want_ to. The fingers still locked in hers tighten and ease, shifting their grip so that their hands are nestled between their bodies, resting against her throat. He kisses her thumb, her wrist, fucking his way into her so carefully that she is writhing again.

“Maker, you feel so good!” she exclaims breathily, and laughs, in delight and at herself. Cullen laughs too, sounding broken, and she wonders how close he is. He doesn’t moan, the way the books had promised, there are no complex positions or spankings (although, with her hand on his flexing arse, she thinks she wouldn’t mind a spank or too) – but this close, she can feel every change in his breath, every shift of his stomach muscles. She wraps her legs around his hips and his breath stops, his hips stilling, before picking up their pace, newly frantic—

Reluctantly, she releases his arse and touches her clit. The little bud is still swollen and wet, and she barely needs Cullen to shift, giving her room to move, before she’s coming again, groaning and head flung back. But he still doesn’t come, his hand on hers tightens until she can feel the muscles in his arm shaking.

A strangled noise leaves his throat, desperate and despairing. “Can’t,” he rasps, shaking his head. “I can’t—“

Ellana presses her nails into his scalp. “Relax, love,” she whispers urgently, voice hitching with every thrust. “Relax, let it go, I’ve got you. You’re safe here.”

The tension in his body changes, leaves his shoulders, somehow migrates to his hips. He fucks her with such force – one, twice, three times – that she cries out with each thrust, tightening her legs around his hips and holding him close. Finally, finally, with one last push that moves them halfway up the bed, he comes with a long sigh, chin tipped back in languorous relief as his cock twitches inside of her and his thrusts slow.

She’s amazed at how it feels, to watch and feel him come. She leans up to nuzzle the line of his throat, her abdomen aching briefly from all this unaccustomed exercise, and kisses the moan she feels trapped there. She is borne back into the mattress as he collapses, snuggling her close, his hunched shoulders finally, _finally_ relaxing.

He’s breathing as if he’s run a marathon, his face pressed into the pillow beside her head. His wet heat is between her legs, inside her, his heavy, hot body sprawled on top of her.

Her hand is still clasped tightly in his. She is so happy she could honestly cry.


End file.
